


Idea Dump

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up, Dialogue-Only, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-04-22 01:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: I'm putting my Silm snippets, ideas and headcanons here as well as on tumblr. Don't worry, I'll try not to clog up the tag.Chapter 1: Fingolfin, Finwë, Canon Divergence, GChapter 2: Maedhros's Most Shameful Fantasy, Russingon, GChapter 3: Post-Reembodiment, Russingon, TChapter 4: Post-Thangorodrim, Maedhros, GChapter 5: Fëanor and Fingolfin, Adolescence in Valinor, GChapter 6: Post-Thangorodrim, implied Russingon, TChapter 7: Post-Thangorodrim, Russingon, MChapter 8: Break up in Valinor, Russingon, TChapter 9: Helcaraxë, Fingolfin, GChapter 10: Fluffy banter, Russingon, TChapter 11: Maedhros angst, Russingon, T
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 76
Kudos: 148





	1. Finwë Doesn't Go to Formenos, Canon Divergence

Nolofinwë blinked slowly and stared at his father. “What?” he said.

Finwë smiled. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“I was certain you would leave with Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë admitted.

“Did you already fancy yourself a king?” Finwë asked, a smile still playing on his lips.

Nolofinwë had thought about it. He had imagined himself in his father’s place, ruling the Noldor fairly and wisely. He had found that he rather liked the idea, but he hadn’t considered that there could be even a better alternative.

“I would rather have you than the crown,” he said.

“Then you will.”

Nolofinwë knew that he should be overjoyed, but an irksome thought kept gnawing at his mind.

“Fëanáro will be displeased,” he said.

The smile disappeared from Finwë’s face. “Had I joined him in exile and left you a king, he would have been displeased as well,” he said.

Nolofinwë nodded his assent, but the worry didn’t leave his mind. If his brother had to decide between his father and the crown that one day could be his, Nolofinwë knew what choice Fëanáro would make.


	2. Maedhros's Most Shameful Fantasy, Russingon

Maedhros’s most shameful fantasy post-Sirion involves crying into imaginary Fingon’s lap and apologizing, while Fingon tenderly tucks Maedhros’s hair behind his ears and says that he knows.

He rarely indulges in it, only when he’s beyond desperate, because as good as it feels, after that the guilt for sullying Fingon’s memory in such a way kills him.


	3. Post-Reembodiment, Russingon

Sometimes, when they are apart, he finds it hard to believe that it is real, that he’s not dreaming of a future never to come or walking in a past long lost, that Maedhros is back and is waiting for him in the house they share or is away on a visit or on an errand, and will be back and will smile the special smile and will take his hand and bring it to his lips. 

It’s hard to stifle the doubt in his mind when he can’t reach out and touch him, when he can’t turn his head and catch him staring, when he can’t feel Maedhros’s body against his. 

In vain he looks for the marks left on his skin. They heal too swiftly and offer no proof of the one who had put them there, only a memory of warm lips that could have been a dream.

His fears ease a little when someone mentions Maedhros, talks about him as if he exists, as if he could be walking down the street right now, as if he’s just another one returned to life, but even then, even when his rational mind tells him that it is true, he cannot fully believe it.

Only when he returns to Maedhros, only when he can see him, can touch him, can trace his fingers across his cheek, can press his lips to his collarbone, only then he knows for certain.

—

Sometimes, even when they are together, even as he has his arms wrapped tightly around Fingon’s waist, even as his nose is pressed into Fingon’s belly, even as Fingon tenderly runs his fingers through his hair, even then, especially then, he does not believe it’s real.

Afraid to move, afraid even to breathe, he tenses, tries to take it all in, terrified to miss even a moment, but Fingon’s hands are gentle and make him relax, make him less and more afraid at the same time.

_Don’t leave yet, don’t leave yet, don’t leave yet,_ he repeats over and over in his mind, but is afraid to say aloud, is afraid to chase the vision away or to turn it sour.

He has memories, new memories, memories of Fingon’s shining eyes, of his whispers, of Fingon’s skin under his fingertips, he has hundreds of them, but it doesn’t make it true. Too kind, too gentle, how can it be real? 

Fingers in his hair, over his face. _Don’t make me fall asleep,_ he never says aloud. If he sleeps, it will disappear, it will all be gone, and then he will know for sure that it’s not real, he will know that Fingon is not truly there.

But Fingon says _I am,_ and when he wakes up, he is, right there, again and again and again, every time, every day, he’s there. And Fingon smiles, and Fingon loves, and Fingon knows, and so does he.


	4. Maedhros, Post-Thangorodrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, this is a sequel to a still unpublished fic but it can be read as a stand-alone.

Maedhros awoke shivering. He was cold. He was always cold up here on the mountain, but at least he didn’t feel it when he was unconscious. He was lucky that there was no wind for now, the hated icy wind that sawed through his bones and swung him back and forth like a pendulum. 

He tried to open his eyes but was unable to. A dull fear rose in his chest and died down immediately. He had been getting weaker, he knew that, but he had lost hope that he would ever get weak enough to leave his chains. 

He hoped he still had the strength to lift his left hand. He needed it to reach his hair and wrap it around his body. It has grown so long that it could entirely cover him. It brought him a little comfort against the cold, served as a barrier between him and the hostile land he was trapped in.

He could move his left but when he reached for his hair, there was nothing. Fear was slow to rise this time but hit him stronger. His hand shook and found his head almost by accident. 

He would have screamed if he could. All he could touch was short stubble. He felt more naked than ever and snatched his hand away from his head as if it would poison him. Why, why, why? Had his hair just fallen off, weak and brittle like the rest of him? Had someone shorn it off? Who? He had been alone on the mountain for so long.

Only now he could feel that whatever was behind his back was decidedly softer than the rock. His heart thudded, and he felt it painfully in his temples, in his throat, beneath his ribs.

He wasn’t hanging anymore, he was quite sure he wasn’t, even if it had become so hard to be sure of something. He still couldn’t move his right arm, he was still unable to feel his fingers, and his shoulder was still burning, but he wasn’t up there.

Relief flooded him and he nearly passed out again from its force. He was filled with overwhelming gratitude for whoever had brought him down. No matter who it was, no matter where he was, no matter what awaited him, no matter the shock of losing his hair. He wasn’t on the mountain, and for the moment it was enough.

By immense force of will, he pried his eyes open. He could see a dark room, he could see a mug on a low chair and he could see his brother Maglor, sitting in an armchair, his eyes half-closed and his gaze absent.

Oh.

Another vision, then. 

How much of it was real? He couldn’t tell. Maglor surely wasn’t. He had seen his brother before and talked to him and listened to him sing and... He shuddered. His brother had been wearing a crown in the last vision. He wasn’t now. He looked exhausted and lost. 

For a moment, Maedhros wanted to call for him, to ask what was troubling him, and he knew if he gathered all his strength, he could force sounds through his throat and past his lips, but he stopped himself in time. It was a foolish idea, which would only add to his suffering. There was no telling what form the vision would take, if it would be similar to the last time or turn out even worse. 

He stayed silent and waited. His visions rarely left him alone, but he prayed he could just look at his brother for a while longer without interruptions. He didn’t really believe he would get his wish. Prayers were never answered here.

Sure enough, soon Maglor stirred and fidgeted in the chair. Maedhros’s eyes shut involuntarily. His heart was beating faster than it had in a long time. He didn’t want another vision so soon after the last one. He couldn’t take it. 

“Nelyo?” Maglor said carefully.

Maedhros shook and didn’t answer. He would have to sooner or later, but maybe he would be lucky and the vision would stay kind for a little longer. He willed Maglor to stay in the chair and continue sleeping, he willed himself to keep hallucinating a bed and a room, even if it was still cold, even if he had to give up his hair, but it was not to be.

Maglor stood and blinked, looking around. “Nelyo?” he repeated hopelessly and receiving no answer, sighed and started walking to the bed.

Maedhros’s world started spinning. With every step Maglor took, it spun faster and faster until it shook off Maedhros, who was trying desperately to clutch at the edge of consciousness. 

He fell into darkness just before Maglor pulled up the covers he had pushed away in his uneasy sleep.


	5. Fëanor and Fingolfin, Adolescence in Valinor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will never become a longer story, so I'm posting it as it is.

Nolofinwë clenches his fists as he sees his mother’s face fall. He shares a glance with Findis, who has pressed her lips into a thin line. Finwë the King hasn’t noticed. _He never does,_ Nolofinwë thinks bitterly and immediately reprimands himself for such thoughts. Fëanáro whirls and walks away from the hall, and only then Finwë’s head turns to him. He frowns, standing up, ready to go after his son, but Indis takes his hand and shakes her head, trying to conceal the hurt in her eyes.

Nolofinwë can’t take it anymore. He turns on his heels and runs after Fëanáro, for once uncaring of propriety. He catches up with him near Fëanáro’s chamber. His brother looks at him and goes in, leaving the door open. He’s standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed on his chest, when Nolofinwë enters. There is a challenge in Fëanáro’s eyes, as if he’s daring Nolofinwë to say something. Nolofinwë forces himself not to balk at it.

“Stop insulting my mother!” he demands, his eyes on Fëanáro’s face.

Fëanáro snorts. “It is not my fault she takes offence at the truth. I have not insulted her. You need not burden yourself with protecting her so-called honor.”

Nolofinwë’s fists are trembling. “You say those things on purpose to upset her!” he accuses. 

“Well, she upset _my_ mother by marrying my father!”

“Your mother cannot be upset! She is dead!”

Shocked silence thunders between them. Fëanáro looks like he has been struck by lightning. He is trembling, his face distorted with a feeling Nolofinwë cannot place. He thinks Fëanáro is going to yell at him or hit him and wonders what he should do then. Hit him back? Apologize? Run away?

But Fëanáro doesn’t say a word. His eyes blaze for a moment, then he looks away and storms out of the room, leaving Nolofinwë behind to stew in his guilt and anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go read [Kalendeer's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer) [A Feast of Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594394/chapters/33729480) for Fëanor and Fingolfin feels. It's amazing and very rewarding.


	6. Maedhros Asks His First Question Post-Rescue

The first thing Maedhros says to Fingon when he is able to form thoughts and is relatively sure what is happening and what has happened is _why_.

Fingon doesn’t startle, but his eyes are wide and disbelieving when he looks at Maedhros, and his voice is trembling just a little when he says, “Russandol, you are awake!”

Maedhros doesn’t feel the need to confirm the obvious fact. He just stares at Fingon until he frowns in confusion.

“What do you mean why?” he asks warily, as if he thinks that Maedhros isn’t making a lot of sense.

It’s frustrating because Maedhros knows what he’s asking. _Why did you come for me? Why didn’t you kill me? Why are you here?_ But he doesn’t have enough strength for talking in full sentences, so he settles for a meaningful look at himself, then at Fingon.

“Why?” he asks again.

The crease between Fingon’s brows disappears, so he must have understood. He leans forward, sits on the edge of his chair, laces his fingers together and puts them under his chin.

“It was the right thing to do,” he says, convinced as only he can be. “And even if it weren’t, I would still do it because I love you.”

Maedhros looks at his hands and wants very much to touch them, to pass his thumb over every knuckle, to tap at the slightly crooked index finger on his right, to circle his wrists and feel the reassuring warmth of Fingon. But his remaining hand is an unyielding boulder resting on the pillows, unwilling to move even an inch. And even if he could move, he wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t touch him.

There are flecks of dried blood under Fingon’s nails. Maedhros knows it’s his blood, remembers it when it was fresh, pouring over Fingon’s hands, darkening his sleeves. Maedhros looks from the dried blood to Fingon’s shining eyes and sees with sudden clarity the road that lies ahead of him, realizes with heart-stopping horror that their fates are intertwined and that he is going to paint Fingon red and drag him down like a weight chained to his neck, slowly pull him under like a ravenous swamp.

There is no escaping it. He sees it now. He should have seen it on the rock when Fingon was frantically trying to stop the bleeding, but he was too delirious to understand the gravity of what had happened. Or maybe it happened in Alqualondë when Fingon found him in the middle of the slaughter, his sword dripping blood and his eyes empty. Or maybe long before that, when Maedhros smiled back at the little boy who was grinning widely at him from behind his father’s legs.

The inevitability, the inescapability of Fingon’s fate crashes down on him, squeezes the air out of his lungs, twists his insides and leaves him gasping for breath.

“No,” he says, strangled.

The word scratches his throat, makes him cough and hiss in pain. Fingon quickly pours some water, helps him drink and sets him back on the pillows.

“Yes,” he says with infinite patience and a smile he reserves only for Maedhros. “I do.”

Maedhros wants to protest but he can’t, he can’t make a sound, and it’s too late anyway. So he closes his eyes and welcomes the unconsciousness, praying without much hope to wake up on the rock.


	7. Exercise in Trust, Russingon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to up the rating to M because of this one story -.-
> 
> Not really a fic, more like a scene I had to get out of my head.

In the semi-darkness, Maedhros lies naked on the bed, tense and alert. Fingon approaches quietly and kneels next to him. He is dressed lightly, only a loose tunic that reaches his knees. He looks at Maedhros’s face, seeking confirmation, and after getting it, bends over him and kisses his left shoulder. Maedhros sighs, tenses even more, then relaxes slightly. Fingon moves his lips to the right, slowly, kiss by kiss, until he reaches Maedhros’s right shoulder and goes lower.

Maedhros is mostly silent. Sometimes the fingers on his left hand twitch, or he sighs or draws a breath a little sharply. Fingon, hyper-aware, keeps looking up, checking with him that it’s still all right to go on. Maedhros always gives a small but certain nod, and Fingon once again loses himself in the sensation of touching Maedhros, basks in Maedhros’s proximity.

There is a faded burn scar on his stomach that Fingon covers in kisses. He drags his lips down and starts kissing a protruded scar, stretching along Maedhros’s hipbone, wonders if it will heal now that Maedhros is away from the tainted lands. It might, it might not. It matters to Fingon only if it matters to Maedhros. He keeps going.

When he looks up again, Maedhros’s eyes are closed, and tears slide down the corners and disappear in his hair.

“Should I stop?” Fingon asks softly.

Maedhros shakes his head. For him, it’s an exercise in trust. What Maedhros wants to find out isn’t if Fingon is deserving of his trust. He knows he is. Maedhros wants to find out if _he_ can trust Fingon enough to let him do this. This is about Maedhros being able to trust, not about Fingon being trustworthy. That’s not even a question.

And Maedhros misses touch, especially Fingon’s, but also the touch of another person in general. He wants to be touched without flinching away, without trembling, without terror clouding his mind. He finds that he can, as he relaxes slowly, as Fingon’s lips slide gently over his skin, not pulling back from scars. For now, only lips, he can handle Fingon’s hands in his hair, holding his hand and sometimes stroking his face, but not anywhere else.

The hem of Fingon’s tunic brushes against Maedhros’s bare thighs. He doesn’t mind the nakedness. This would be impossible otherwise. Before they started, Fingon had asked if he should be naked too, so they would be on an equal footing, but Maedhros recoiled at the idea. Maybe one day, but not now, he’s not there yet.

Fingon, meanwhile, has finished kissing Maedhros’s pelvis and slides lower, hovers over Maedhros’s cock. He hasn’t even touched it, he’s still thinking if he should, but Maedhros gasps, tensing again. Fingon raises his head, questioning, ready to back away immediately. Maedhros looks into his eyes for a few moments and nods. Fingon bows down. Maedhros closes his eyes and gradually, deliberately relaxes his muscles one by one.

Fingon presses kisses along Maedhros’s cock, on his balls. Maedhros stays soft. It’s not really sexual for him, rather it’s comforting, even if he’s shivering from the intensity of the feeling. It’s comforting to feel the warmth of Fingon’s touch, it’s reassuring to trust that he will stop without questions if Maedhros wants to.

Fingon himself is hard, has been for a while. Even though he acknowledges that what they’re doing isn’t about sex, still the feel and taste of Maedhros’s skin, the mere idea that he’s allowed to touch him, that Maedhros is here, within reach, that he trusts Fingon enough to let him do this, are enough to arouse him, to make his head spin.

He is mortified, though, and grateful that his tunic hides his erection. He doesn’t want Maedhros to see, doesn’t know how Maedhros will react. He might panic, he might freeze, this might break the trust they have worked so hard to rebuild. So he presses his lips to Maedhros’s inner thigh and blinks fast to push back the sudden tears. Maedhros laughs a little because Fingon’s long eyelashes tickle him. Fingon exhales, and Maedhros laughs again, jerks his leg.

“Sorry,” Fingon murmurs.

He goes back to exploring Maedhros’s body with his lips only, taking comfort in the fact that he can see a small, content smile on Maedhros’s lips whenever he looks up. By the end of it, all tension has left Maedhros, and he’s lying, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.

Fingon crawls up, lies down next to Maedhros, puts his chin on his shoulder, presses his face against his neck, still hiding his already wilting erection. He doesn’t kiss Maedhros on the lips, that’s still off-limits, but Maedhros brings his hand to Fingon’s face, tilts his chin up, presses his lips to Fingon’s, not quite a kiss, and whispers his thanks.


	8. Russingon Breakup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place almost immediately after the Sword Incident.

"Have you even considered the idea that your father might be wrong?"

"Have you considered that he might not? That your father truly plots the downfall of our house?"

"How can you say that? You know my father loves you."

"I know he would love to deprive me of my birthright."

"What? That's not you. That's your father talking."

"Well, my father is the greatest among us, so maybe he has an idea what he's talking about."

"Your father is a murderous villain, who turned his back on his family. He drew a sword against his brother, marred the holy land, broke the sacred familial ties."

"Marred... Broke the sacred familial ties? Now you worry about those ties? Now and not when you wormed your way into my bed?"

"Don't you dare to talk to me like that!"

"Oh, I thought I could tell you anything. Isn't that what you kept assuring me of, my dearest friend?"

"I cannot believe you would bring up our relationship as an argument against me."

"I cannot believe I had a relationship with a faint-hearted, sanctimonious lackey of the Valar. I cannot believe I considered you my friend."

"You don't have to anymore."

"Well, I am glad."

"So am I."  
......................................................................

"I am not going to apologize."

"Don't. I wouldn't forgive you anyway."

"Forgive _me_? What did I do? I am not the one defending a near-kinslayer. I am not going to apologize because I did nothing wrong, but if _you_ apologize, I will forgive you."

"How generous of you. You never miss the chance to show off your feigned moral superiority, do you? I am not going to apologize for standing with my father!"

"If you want to continue defending the fool you call a father, that is your choice. But my offer remains open. If one day you come to me, admit that you were wrong, denounce your father, apologize for everything you just said to me and accept my father as the rightful king, I will forgive you."

"..."

"The choice is yours."

"...Get out. Get out before I force you out."

"I wouldn't stay even if you asked. You have changed. You are not the one I loved."

"Did you ever love me? Or was it another plot to bring our house down?"

"...I changed my mind. I will never forgive you, no matter how much you grovel."

"Out!"

"I will go and gladly, but be warned that the next time we meet, my father and I might bring swords too."

"What displeases me is not the promise of swords but the idea that I will have to see you again."

"Then I had better take my leave if I am such an unpleasant sight. Farewell, Nelyafinwë."

"Good riddance, false friend."


	9. Fingolfin Across the Helcaraxë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea who he's talking to. If you do, please tell me.

“What will you do when you find them? What will you do with Fëanáro? Kill him?”

“I will not allow him to make a kinslayer out of me. No. He will be brought to justice for his betrayal.”

“And what will the judgment be? If you call yourself a king, then it must be your decision. Will it be death?”

“I will strip him of the crown. I will exile him and his sons from the lands that we will claim.”

“He will not surrender that easily. Surely you know that.”

“Then we will see how sharp his sword is and if it is sharper than mine.”


	10. Russingon Fluffy Banter

Fingon sighed and propped his head up on his hands. “I get tired of waiting, Russandol. Do I have to try to seduce you like we are back in Valinor?”

Maedhros looked up from his letter. “When did you ever try to seduce me in Valinor?”

“What? All the time! Don’t you remember? I was always... with you.”

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing...”

“Mmm.” Fingon grinned smugly. “So do I need to do it again?”

“No, seriously, that’s what you were doing? That was you seducing me? I’d never have guessed. You were terrible at it.”

Fingon sat up with an exaggerated gasp. “How dare you!”

“My brothers sometimes wondered why you never found someone. Now I know why if that’s what you think seducing is.”

“This is so insulting. I was trying, all right? Your brothers should have been wondering about themselves.” He paused for a moment. “And you know very well why I never found someone.”

Maedhros tried to keep the teasing smirk, but it turned into a warm smile. “I know,” he said and stood up.


	11. Maedhros Angsts Over His Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internalized homophobia in this chapter, people. It's not easy being Maedhros.

At his worst moments after his rescue, Maedhros sometimes believes he has corrupted Fingon. He thinks he has tainted their friendship. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the Oath, the Doom of the Noldor, the years he spent so close to the source of the greatest evil, the influence of Middle-earth or just something innate within himself that has stuck its tentacles into Fingon and is sucking the life force out of him.

He lies next to Fingon and thinks about it, imagines dark fumes like those made in Angband exuding him and covering Fingon, stifling him. He is afraid to look back into the past, to search for the seeds of whatever it is they have. If he finds them, he will know that he was marred even then. And if he doesn’t, it will mean Morgoth was able to warp him. Whatever the answer, he knows he has irrevocably damaged something pure, has sullied someone as good as Fingon. 

They used to be friends and cousins and now they touch each other in the dark, hiding, a secret so shameful it would bring dishonor even to kinslayers were it discovered. How could he do this to Fingon of all people?

He shrinks back, thinks about sliding out of the bed, leaving the room and never returning, wants to put an end to this, to save Fingon by wrenching him from himself. Then Fingon kicks out in his sleep, mutters something intelligible and frowns. Maedhros moves forward without thinking, puts an arm around him, pulls him closer and sees him smile.

So he stays, holds Fingon until the sun is up, and the shadows disperse, and the fear hides in the darkest corner of his heart to rear its head another night.


End file.
